Thief of Todays and Tomorrows, Susan Wells Bennett

EDITOR'S NOTE: The most underrated work in the ever growing oeuvre of Susan Wells Bennett.

What Reviewers Say: "This book has the ability to transport the reader to an era goneby in a large city that once was not more than a dusty western town. The characters grab you and make you want to know more, as any true story should do. Great detail in the location settings and time in history references. Worth every penny!"Raesmama, Amazon Reader

"Susan's style is, as ever, warm and compelling and this story evokes a gamut of emotions: delight for a young couple and their young son in their new post-war life, worry for the naïve, but well-intentioned young father as he precariously treads dangerous waters, fear for an innocent mother, who is given no choices, admiration for the strength and resolution of this young woman and awe for the compassion and kindness she selflessly gives others, despite her own losses. "Beeshon, Amazon Reader

"In plain everyday English Ms Bennett conveys what it must be like to live with permanent guilt, regardless of its real cause, and is able to put the soul at peace throughout time.I was hit by the following words: "Sometimes, late at night, I have the strongest urge to crawl into someone else's bed just to feel their warmth against me." I understood what "The Thief of Todays and Tomorrows" was all about."Alex Canton-Dutari, Amazon Reader

What the book says: The Fourth of July fell on a Sunday in 1948. Our regular guests were joined by a friend of Louie’s, an older gentleman named Paul Lucca. He was a handsome man, but his eyes were like darkened windows – he could see out but no one could see in. He kissed me on both cheeks and thanked me for my hospitality in allowing him to tag along with Louie. “Any friend of Louie’s is welcome in our home,” I said as I ushered them into our home. “May I take your hat?” “Of course, my dear,” he said, handing me his straw fedora, which I hung on the hat rack behind the door. I heard Francis come in through the back door. “Louie,” he said. “Good to see you.” “Francis DeLucia, I’d like you to meet Paul Lucca, a good friend of ours.” I looked at Francis just in time to catch a look of understanding cross his face. “Of course,” he said. “We’re extremely honored to have you in our home.” I’d made potato salad and baked beans; the beans were warming in the oven and the table was set. Francis was cooking the main dish that day, barbecuing some steaks on the grill outside. Louie and Mr. Lucca followed him back to his grill. Jane and I were sitting in the dining room, watching Frankie and waiting for the steaks to cook. A few moments after Francis and the others went outside, Tommy came inside. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you being social?” Jane asked, irritated. “I got the distinct impression I wasn’t welcome,” he answered, equally disturbed. “What happened?” I asked. “Nothing, really. Francis and I had been talking about baseball – the Sox game coming up. When Louie pulled up, Francis said that it looked like Louie had brought a guest. He went inside to find out who, and I stayed and tended the steaks. When he came back out, Louie said hello to me and introduced Mr. Lucca. Then the conversation stopped dead. Nothing. I looked at Louie and he looked at the house. So I came in.” He looked down at Frankie, watching him play with the blocks for a few moments. “You know what Francis is mixed up with, right?” “Yeah, Tommy, I know,” I answered. “It’s what I think it is?” “Yeah.” “Katie…” he started. “Katie, what’s he done?” “Nothing. Not really. He just…he made a few deliveries to Springfield.” “That’s all?” “Yes.” “Are you sure?” I wasn’t sure. How could I be? He worked nights; most nights I was sound asleep when he came home. “Yes.” “He can still get out, then. You’ve got to convince him to get out before he does something he’ll regret.” The back door opened and the other men all came in; Francis was carrying the steaks. “All right, everyone, dinner is served,” he announced carrying the platter to the table. Conversation that night was stilted. Neither Tommy nor Jane said a word the entire meal. Louie tried to keep everyone entertained with stories from the nightclub. After every story, he’d turn to Francis and say, “That’s exactly how it happened, right, Francis?” Francis would alternately say, “Yeah, Louie, just like that” or nod his head in agreement, as if he were the straight man in a bad Vaudeville double act. At the end of the meal, Mr. Lucca stood and said, “Thank you all for a lovely evening.” I started to push my chair out, but he held out a hand to stop me. “No, Mrs. DeLucia, I will see myself out. It has been a pleasure to meet you all.” Louie slammed down a few more bites of his meal while Mr. Lucca spoke, and then followed him out the door with a discreet wave back to us. “Well, shall we go out and watch the fireworks?” Francis asked, putting his knife and fork down. “Who was that?” I asked. “Mr. Lucca, Katie,” he laughed. “Did you miss your introduction?” “You know what I mean.” Tommy, Jane and I were all waiting for a real answer. He sat silently for a few moments, then said quietly, “Let’s talk about this later.” “I think we should talk about this now, Francis,” Tommy said. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you? We’re your family, and we all want to help you.” “Tom, there’s not a thing you can do for me. Trust me on this. Just stay out of it.” Tommy started to say something else to Francis, but changed his mind. He turned to Jane and said, “Let’s go home. I don’t think I’m in the mood to watch fireworks.” He and Jane hugged me and left. I picked up Frankie from his highchair and took him to his crib, where he cried for a few minutes before drifting off to sleep. Then I went back to the dining room and sat down at the table, where Francis was still sitting and staring into space. I asked again who Mr. Lucca was. “He’s the boss, Katie. The real boss. The one Mr. Acardi reports to.” “Why was he here tonight?” He answered me with a question: “Did you see the family resemblance? He looks a lot like Pop, doesn’t he?” I had noticed, but I’d thought it was just because they were both older Italian men. I nodded without speaking and waited. “He’s a cousin – one of my father’s cousins. I didn’t know until today – when I was grilling the steaks. He says to me, ‘How is Patricio?’ I asked, ‘You mean my pop?’ and he says, ‘Yeah. We played together as children in Palermo.’ I laughed and told him he had the wrong guy because my pop was from Rome, not Sicily, and he said no, he had the right guy. Turns out Pop didn’t want to be a cobbler like his father. He looked for a faster way to make money instead. Lucca says that, after a few simple jobs, la famiglia asked Pop to do something that he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do. Instead of admitting his weakness, Pop ran to the mainland – to Rome. Lucca did the job instead.” “That can’t be true,” I said. “Why not?” “Well…your father talks about Rome, not Sicily. Your father was happy being a cobbler, too.” “Maybe he found out that the grass wasn’t greener in la famiglia. Anyway, when he finished telling me this story, he asked, ‘So, Frankie, are you like your father?’” “What did you say?” “I told him I hoped I’d gotten the best parts of my father and none of his flaws.” We sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the clock ticking loudly in our ears. Finally, I said, “What have you done, Francis? What have you agreed to do?” “I’m a nightclub manager, Katie. That’s all.” “Why was Lucca here, then?” He dropped his head into his hands and stared down at his empty plate. He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. “What?” “I can’t tell you,” he said in clearer voice. Anger boiled up in me and I laughed bitterly. “You’d better. I can’t live with not knowing. You want someone else to tell me what you’ve done? You want Grace to drop another bomb on me?” “It’s not the same.” “You’re probably right – it’s worse. It can only get worse from here.” I put my hands flat against the table to keep them from shaking. “Do you want to lose me? Lose Frankie? Then just keep hiding things from me. We won’t survive with secrets between us.” “Katie. You don’t understand. This is family business. If I tell you, I put you in danger.” “Then be like your father. Leave before you’re in too deep.” “Then what will we do?” “Let’s go west, Francis. Let’s start over. You can work at a garage again. Become a real mechanic. I can just be a housewife – no charity work, no society gatherings. We can just be Mr. and Mrs. DeLucia, that nice couple with the handsome son.” He looked up at me and smiled sadly. “How could we take Frankie away from Pop? Away from Jane and Tommy?” “Tell Patricio the truth – he’ll understand. Jane and Tommy love Frankie, but he’s just their nephew. We’re his parents.” “It’s not that simple. I’ve pledged my loyalty to the family. They won’t just let me walk away.” “How do you know?” “It’s part of the deal – once you’re made, you have their protection and they have your loyalty. If I walk away, we’re no longer safe.” “But you haven’t done anything—“ “I’ve done some things,” he confessed. “Things I’d rather not discuss with you.” I was stunned. I sat there a moment longer before I went to the nursery and picked up Frankie, who woke up and started to cry. Carrying my son, I walked back to the living room, grabbed my handbag and started for the back door. “Where are you going?” “Away,” I answered. “Katie! Stop. Don’t go.” With one hand on the doorknob and my back turned to him, I said, “I don’t know who you are. I can’t stay.” I heard him sob as I closed the door behind me. I took the car and went to Jane and Tommy’s house.What We Say: What we say: Available at Amazon for Kindle and in print,Nook from Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers.

3 Heads & A Tail, by Vickie Johnstone

What's this brand new book about?

When nature lover Josie moves into a house share with two pals, dreamer Ben and model man David, she sees it as a short stop and doesn't bank on an attraction developing with one of them. Meanwhile, Ben's dog, Glen, has the hots for Miss Posh, the beautiful golden Lab in the park. When dog meets dog it's puppy love, but a complication leads to Glen taking matters into his own paws. In this comedy of errors, romance and walkies, it's anyone's guess who is going to get the girl/dog and live happily ever after.

What the book says:

"Glen, Glen, are you okay, boy?" cried Ben, running over to the furry golden heap on the ground. "I'm sorry I threw it so high. I thought you'd get it." "He almost made it," observed Josie, "but then he lost concentration." Glen yelped and rolled over on his back, as if he'd intended to do that all along. "What do you mean?" asked Ben. Josie giggled. "Didn't you see?" "See what?" "You guys! You don't notice these things. He was looking at that other dog – I guess she's a girl!" Josie pointed in the other direction, but the dog was now a speck in the distance. "Really?" asked Ben, surprised. "I really didn't see that! Glen, you dirty old dog!" They both started laughing and bent down to tickle Glen's belly. His big tongue rolled this way and that. How did she know, thought Glen? How embarrassing! He thought it was his little secret. And he would have made that jump if only he'd looked the other way and that tree hadn't got in the way! "So what do you like doing, Ben?" asked Josie. "Or do? For a living, I mean." "What do you think?" "Well, it's going to be something different, I reckon... and creative, not in an office." Ben pushed his hair behind his ears and grinned. "Go on." Even Glen rolled over, interested. "Erm, I reckon your job isn't your real ambition 'cos you seem a bit of a dreamer. I'm guessing you work in a shop and do something else on the side... like being in a band? Nope, that's David. Maybe you write books or something?" Ben grinned. "Close, but no cigar – I work in a florist. I sort of half own it and I'm half manager, and part-time I sort of do some acting." "That's cool." "It's nothing big, just an amateur dramatics thing, but we put on plays at the local theatre. You'll have to come and see us some time. We're rehearsing at the moment." "I'd like that. What's the play?" "Nothing you will have heard of," said Ben. "A friend of mine wrote it. Your turn!" Josie smiled. "You have to try to guess too!" Ben thought for a moment. "Right, I'm thinking that you do something to do with nature or animals." "Spot on!" replied Josie, patting Glen's head. His big dopey eyes stared up at her. "How did you guess? I work on a magazine about animals and I write articles. And, in my spare time, da, daa, I'm a superhero! Just kidding! I work with deaf children and I know sign language!" "Wow!" said Ben. "Seriously, I'm impressed. You're doing something good and worthwhile, and I'm clipping droopy flowers." "That's one way of looking at it, but I'm sure you do some pretty amazing displays." "Not bad," admitted Ben. "And I get to meet a lot of husbands who are really sorry for something!" "I bet!" Ben wondered if Josie had a boyfriend, but he daren't ask. The timing wasn't right. She had only just moved in. Glen was looking at him quizzically with an odd look in his eyes. Must have been the bang up the tree, he thought. Then he imagined the dog wearing glasses and he started grinning. "What's so funny?" asked Josie. "I was just imagining Glen wearing specs so he can see trees!" "Ah," said Josie, "poor Glen!" She jumped up, patted the dog, and ran a short distance away. Glen took the bait and leapt up, charging after her, barking softly. Josie giggled and spun round in a circle, with the dog following her lead. Soon he'd given up and was chasing his tail, so she began to chase round after it. Ben laughed. She was cool and Glen obviously thought so too. Silently wishing he had asked her out, but knowing the moment had passed, Ben stood up and watched the two players chasing around the grass for a second before heading over to join in the crazy dance.What we say: Available at Amazon for Kindle and in print.

Wheezer and the Painted Frog, by Kitty Sutton

What Reviewers Say:" Definitely worth a read by anyone who likes Native American stories."Rich Meyer

"While this was at it's heart a murder mystery, you could feel the history seeping out of every word."Wistfulskimmie's Book Reviews

"...and I must say that reading Wheezer's story, the Cherokee people story, Sasa's story, captivated me as much as the best novels by Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour managed to do so many years ago."Annarita Guarnieri, author of Cats: Instructions For Use

What the book says: “Our gathering here is a very important occasion. We are here to find out what each of us knows of the truth concerning events that have happened here among us. Each person in the council may only have a piece of the knowledge. We call this gathering a Talking Circle. In the Talking Circle, everyone's voice will be heard and while that person is talking, he or she will not be interrupted… except in this case Jackson may ask questions of the person, for he knows what he is looking for and we do not. To assure that all may say all they want to say, we will use this,” David went on, as he held up the feather attached to the stick. “This is called a Talking Feather. When a person is holding this feather, no others may speak until the feather is passed to somebody else. All in the Talking Circle will have their turn to hold the Talking Feather and speak what is in their heart, but it is important that no negative comment come out of anyone's mouth while another is speaking. This is the way of the Cherokees from the time of our beginning. Jackson, who do you wish to pass the Talking Feather to first?” asked David. “There is so much information I need that the Talking Feather may be given to some more than once. First, I would like to hear from Sasa,” Jackson answered. Sasa stood up. For just a moment she hesitated, collecting her thoughts, because she knew how important it was to get to the truth. The Talking Feather was passed to her. Everyone watched as Wheezer also got up and stood beside her, as if he also expected to tell about his discoveries. Sasa glanced down at Wheezer as he looked up at her, and they both then faced forward as Sasa began to relate her experiences of the morning's trek to the cabin in the woods. She spoke clearly, relating every step she and Wheezer had taken. The minutes flowed by and Anna wondered what other dangers lurked even now in the camp. A shiver went down her spine as she remembered that sooner or later she would have to face her father and it would be a showdown of an unknown nature; she was already preparing herself for it, but she feared the rage that she felt building inside herself, even now, on behalf of these people who were truly suffering because of her father's crimes. What we say: Available at Amazon for Kindle and in print,Nook from Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers.

Wife In the Mirror, by Emjae Edwards

What Reviewers Say:

"Wife in the Mirror is a tightly woven romantic mystery filled with plenty of twists, turns, and adventure."Kristie Leigh Maguire, author of Second Chances

" I felt how helpless Fran felt when Cricket wouldnt believe her and her telling of what happened with her stepbrother at the party brought tears to my eyes and when Cricket called her Freddie after their kiss-- gut wrenching!!"Nicki, Vine Voice reviewer Amazon

What the Book Says: Fran paced the floor of the plush office, her small hands twisted behind her back. It had been a nerve wracking trip; the crush of people at the terminal, the breakneck speed of the ride to the helicopter pad, the first helicopter ride of her life, and now this agonizing wait for the unknown. She was a wreck. Cricket perched on the edge of his glass and chrome desk, watching her, a thin brown cigarillo dangling, unlit, from his lips. “Fred, will you land somewhere?” he urged at last. “Have a drink or something. You know King is always late.” Fran jumped at the sound of his voice. “You know very well I cannot sit still under the circumstances. And from what you’ve told me about your brother, I got the impression he would be very punctual.” Cricket laughed. “Not him. He invented the term fashionably late. He was even late for his wedding.” He saw hope sparkle in Fran’s eyes and the laughter turned to a wry smile. “Very good, Fred. You almost had me going for it.” He reached into the breast pocket of his brown linen suit jacket and brought out a gold lighter. His smile changed as he produced a flame. “Remember this?” He lit the cigarillo and tossed the lighter to her. She caught it and looked at it blankly. From the little she knew about such things, she assumed this was very expensive. “Should I?” She tossed it back. “You should,” his smile was still grim as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket, “you gave it to me for Father’s Day after Elia was born. You called it a consolation prize.” Fran shuddered, unable to believe the callousness of the woman for whom she was being mistaken. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly, “it must have hurt a great deal.” “Don’t pity me, Fred,” he snarled. “Pity from you is more than I can tolerate.” “It wasn’t pity,” she said, and began to pace the room again, “it was remorse for what she did to you.” “How long, Fred?” he asked, watching her through a thin shroud of smoke. “How long what?” she asked, pausing to study a series of photographs taken during construction of the Royal Paradise. “How long are you going to continue this crazy act?” He slid from the desk and stood behind her. “Don’t you see that these desperate protestations of yours will only make King angrier? He respects people who can face up to their indiscretions a lot more than those who are trapped and insist on trying to wriggle out.” “Don’t you see that I can’t do anything less?” She turned around to find him alarmingly near. “I can’t be anyone but Frances Smith. That’s all I am, all I can be, because that’s all I’ve ever been.” Cricket’s black eyes swept over her pleading expression. “Have you suffered a blow to the head recently?” he asked, his fingertips brushing across her brow. “No,” she pulled away, “and amnesiacs don’t wake up with new physical identification – and I have all sorts. Oh, why is it so difficult to accept that I am not your sister-in-law?” “Because, my dear,” he said, and caught her chin, “no one could be so much like her, except her twin sister.” He leaned toward her. “No,” she twisted away from his kiss, “please don’t.” Cricket watched her trembling lips in annoyance and concern. “Does sex in general scare you, or is it that you’re afraid to let yourself go with me, afraid that your feelings might give you away?” Fran moved out of his vicinity and lingered before his desk. He scared her. More precisely, what he did to her scared her. She drew a deep, albeit shaking, breath. “Do you have a picture of your daughter?” “Elia. Her name is Elia,” Cricket growled. “Stop calling her my daughter. It bothers me, will anger King, and she has no reason to know that she is.” “I see. Of course.” She ran a finger along the cool surface of his smoked glass desktop. This child of his was a deep wound. It was also a source of morbid fascination for her; a man forced to watch another man raise his daughter. It was like something out of movies or soap opera. She was ashamed of herself, but still she said, “Then I don’t suppose you have a recent picture of her.” “As it happens, I do,” his growl became a confession as he moved toward the desk, himself, “but I wouldn’t broadcast that fact, if I were you.” He pulled open one of the bottom drawers. “I took this a few weeks ago, at her First Communion.” He retrieved a small photo in what appeared to be an antique frame and offered it to Fran. “First Communion?” Fran looked up in surprise. Cricket gestured impatiently with the illicit photo. “Despite all reason and common assumptions, King is still respecting your wishes for her to have a Catholic upbringing. Now, do you want to see this, or not?” Fran took the photograph and let out a little sigh. The sweet, pensive face of the honey colored girl was heart tugging and Fran bit down on her lip to keep from weeping for a motherless child. “She’s beautiful,” she said, holding the photo across the desk, “I can see why you are so proud of her.” Cricket put the photo back in the drawer. “A word of advice, Fred.” She looked up, her grey-green eyes silvered with tears. “Yes?” “There’s a new softness about you. It’s going to get you hurt.” He leaned against the desk, dragging in smoke from the cigarillo. “You’d better be your old, hard as nails self around King, or he’s going to run right over you. And,” he stubbed the cigarillo out, releasing smoke in a curling ribbon from the crystal ash tray, “as much as I want to see you punished for you did to Elia, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to see you get crushed.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” “No?” He revealed yet another sort of smiled. “Well, neither does the fact I’ve discovered that I still care a great deal for you.” Fran felt a funny little twist in her middle; something with hope and pleasure, and the abrupt realization that he wasn’t really talking to her. “No, you don’t. You might still care about Freddie,” she reminded him softly, and sadly, “you don’t even know me.”

Cactus & Mistletoe, by Emjae Edwards

What Reviewers are saying:

"Emma's reactions to the good guys are great, her responses to the the bad guys are wonderfully comeuppancie, and her conversations with Sawyer's 6-year-old son are passages you will want to read again and again."More Books Please, Amazon reader

" The conversations and interactions between Emma and Sammy were touching and kept me wondering what was going to happen to this little boy." Kindle Addict, Amazon reader

What the book says: Sawyer’s arm was wrapped tightly around her shoulder, the snow falling so lightly that it only seemed a cold, wet kiss on her face, and Don’s smug smile floated somewhere ahead of her as she stood amid the gathering. Everyone was quiet, watching, as if in awe, as Mother Nature lovingly laid out a white shawl across the cacti, fence posts, and out buildings. It was almost surreal. “Feel a little more like Christmas, Emma?” Don asked her after they had stood watching for several minutes. Before she could answer, Grant Harris began to whistle White Christmas and everyone jumped in boisterously, some off key, some fumbling over the words, but it was really quite a moment. Emma didn’t sing, of course, but, for a moment, she wasn’t quite so angry or quite so homesick. “Someone should wake Sammy,” she suggested, when the song came to an end. “I’m sure he’d want to see this.” Sawyer nodded and released her. She thought he was letting her go for the boy, but he strode away before she could take one step. As he disappeared, Grant started another song, Good King Wenceslas, and though fewer people knew the words, they still made quite a festive noise. The singing stopped when Sawyer appeared again, Sammy, wrapped in a blanket, in his arms. “Whoa!” was all Sammy could say, and it made Sawyer laugh. Don started Jingle Bells, and Sammy joined in the song, his hands extended to catch snowflakes as he sang. After a couple of other songs, people were wet and cold and happy to say their goodnights. Emma took Sammy inside, over his protests, to let Sawyer say goodbye to his guests. “Come on,” she promised, “let’s have some hot cocoa. It’s just the thing for a snowy night.” Sammy was excited about the snow, as would be expected, but not for the reason that would be expected. He climbed up on a stool, chattering excitedly about the snow coming just like his dad had pledged. Emma listened with half an ear while she prepared the promised hot cocoa, moving around the kitchen with the familiarity and ease of her own little house. The arrival of snow, no matter how little, or late, had calmed her a bit, cooled the raging anger inside her, given her just a fraction of normalcy that she needed to think clearly. She answered his chirping questions with a thoughtful ‘mm hmm’ until he repeated one question again, impatiently. “I beg your pardon?” “You’re going to stay for sure, now that it’s started snowing. Uncle Don said you missed the snow and might go home, but now that it’s snowing, you don’t need to go, right?” “Well, I…um…” “Yes, you don’t need to, now that the snow’s come,” Sawyer said, appearing at the door, Don on his heels, both of them covered in the white stuff. Emma turned her head just enough to look at the two of them. Fortunately, they mistook the irritated purse of her lips for tracking snow and mud into the kitchen, not realizing that she was annoyed by Sawyer’s habit of hovering outside a door waiting for the optimum opening for his arrival. “Uh oh, ‘Uncle Don’,” Sawyer said, looking both goofy and chagrined, “I think we’re in trouble. Look at the mess.” Don looked down, too, and shrugged. “I didn’t notice that it was that muddy, yet,” was his explanation. “Well, I’d clean it up before Mary comes in tomorrow, if I were you,” Emma said, stirring warm milk into Sammy’s cup. “And there’ll be no scolding Sammy for tracking mud after that,” she called after the two men as they went shuffling off in search of towels to clean up their mud. “Cool,” Sammy laughed. Emma laughed with him, feeling she had just scored a small victory for the boy’s rights. “Yes,” she agreed, passing the cup to him, “cool.” “Mmm, this is good.” If Emma had managed to remain even slightly detached from the boy, in that moment she was utterly in love with him; in superhero pajamas, his dark hair tousled and slightly wet from his exposure to snow, a brown band of cocoa across his lips, his eyes bright and happy, a wide, cheerful smile beneath the band of cocoa, he was the image of what a little boy ought to be. She couldn’t resist dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m glad you like it.” “So, you will stay?” he asked again. “Sammy, I…” the brightness in his eyes dimmed a little and it hurt her. “It’s very important to you that I stay, isn’t it?” He nodded. “You’re the only one who ever noticed me.” He didn’t say it woefully, or even in a play for sympathy. It was just a fact. Until the moment she walked through that door and down into this underground palace, he had been invisible. “Well, everyone should be noticed by someone, Sammy,” she said, and put her arm around him. “So, I’ll stay, at least until Christmas, and then we’ll see. Okay?” “Okay,” he said, and though he was trying to sound very unaffected, there was something in that one word that bespoke relief. “Right, then. Finish up and let’s get you off to bed. Who knows how much snow there will be tomorrow, hmm?” “And I can go outside in it,” Sammy said, taking a large gulp of chocolate. “And they can’t say anything.” “Not a word,” Emma agreed. Surely by Christmas she could convince Sawyer that the boy would be happier with her, back in his own homeland. She hummed a bit of Good King Wenceslas as she rinsed out the chocolate pot.

Wild Life, Book 1 of the Brass Monkey Series, by Susan Wells Bennett

What Reviewers are saying:"This book is a rich mix of fun, tragedy, love and loss. The relation of the past and the present is important - the way the past sneaks in to stop you living fully in the present and some characters have some ghosts to put to rest."Vixie UK, Amazon Purchase

"I hated this story to end...the only thing that kept me sane was the fact that it's a series, so the story really doesn't end."Guerra, Amazon Purchase

"Anyone who enjoys a story about how people find a second act after life kicks them in the teeth will love Wild Life. I can't wait to read the rest of the series!"Laurie Boris, Amazon Purchase

What the Book says:

Forcing himself to think about something other than his miserable relationship with Brian, Milo focused on the zoo volunteer who seemed to have it in for him: Claire. She must be a miserable old thing. One of those women who really needed to get laid. He chuckled lightly to himself and stabbed a forkful of lettuce. He suspected he was on the zoo’s unofficial "watch list.” For months now, every single time he handed his membership card to an attendant at the gate, he or she would scan the card, do a double-take at the screen, and greet him by name. When it first started happening, he thought the zoo had put some kind of customer service initiative in place, like the stores do sometimes. He hated those little signs at the bank: "If I don’t call you by name during our transaction, I owe you a dollar.” What if he didn’t want to be called by name? Milo preferred a certain level of anonymity. Once people knew your name, he thought, they started just walking up and talking to you in the middle of grocery stores or in movie theater lines. He hated that. Back in International Falls, it had been virtually impossible to go anywhere without someone coming up and starting a friendly conversation. After dead Alice’s funeral, he spent months being consoled in public by people he barely knew and didn’t care to know. What damned business of theirs was it how he was getting along without her? And, of course, he had gotten along just fine – which just gave the neighbors something to gossip about, as if surviving the death of a spouse were intrinsically wrong. Especially a spouse as long-suffering and saintly as dead Alice was supposed to have been. No, despite his irritation with the way it had happened, leaving Minnesota – or at least International Falls – was the best possible thing that could have happened to him. Phoenix was a huge metropolis, home to nearly one-and-a-half million people. He could go just about anywhere in the city and be treated with the polite but distant friendliness he treasured. Even here, at the Texaz Grill – a restaurant he visited at least twice a month – the waitresses never gave him more than the fleeting attention he deserved. So why was it that he couldn’t visit the zoo without feeling as if he were the bear and the volunteers were the hunters? "Here you go,” the waitress said, deftly replacing the emptied salad plate with a heaping portion of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes. Hardly remembering a bite of the salad, he frowned. "Isn’t this what you ordered?” she asked anxiously. "Yes, yes, of course. My mind was wandering.” "Shew,” she said, wiping her forehead with an exaggerated motion. "For a minute I thought I’d just heard what I wanted to hear. After all, this is your regular order!” As she walked away, Milo ground his teeth in frustration and vowed to add more restaurants to his rotation of favorites, even if he couldn’t bring himself to remove the Texaz Grill from the list. What We're Saying: Available at Amazon for Kindle and in print,Nook from Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers.

An Unassigned Life, by Susan Wells Bennett

What Reviewers are saying:

"I would highly recommend it to anyone!"Earleen Smith, Amazon purchase

"An Unassigned Life is a masterpiece of irony."David, Amazon purchase

"Susan has me believing that ghosts just may exist after all."Kathie Leigh Maguire, author of Desert Heat and Second Chances

What the Book Says: “I’m sorry about the spirit cleansing.”

“Speaking of that, would you mind scrubbing the walls and doors where she smudged them? You wouldn’t believe how bad sage smells when you’re dead.”

“That’s all that happened? You just had to deal with a foul smell?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Father Donovan—”

“You mean Father Hernandez.”

“No, not the live priest. The dead one who came with him.”

“I had a dead priest in my house tonight?”

“Yeah. Nice guy. I met him a few weeks ago. Anyway, the Father says that the reason cleansings worked in the past was because the smell – and trust me, it was rank – would drive the spirits out of the home and therefore away from their Book of El. Once the spirits are away from their books, the prayers and chants force them into the underworld, so to speak.”

“You mean Hell.”

He winced. “Well, yeah, okay. Hell.”

“What’s the Book of El?”

“Did you ever see the movie Beetlejuice?”

She nodded.

“You remember that Geena Davis and what’s-his name – the good-looking guy who was married to Kim Bassinger—”

“Alec Baldwin?”

“Yeah, him. You remember they had that instruction manual that the old lady gave them?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s like that.”

“You have an instruction manual for being dead?”

“Yeah.” He reached into his pocket, expecting to pull it out, but it wasn’t there. “Huh. That’s funny. I just figured I’d have it with me. I guess it doesn’t come with me into your dreams.”

“But if it’s small enough to carry with you, then why would a spirit ever leave it behind?”

“I have the latest version; it’s electronic. I’ve seen the originals, though; they’re about the size of an end table.”

“Whoa. Weird. Speaking of which – is there another spirit in the house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Pandora said something about a woman hanging around the house. Did you hear that part?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that. No, there are no other unassigned souls hanging about the house. She was probably just trying to impress all of you with her knowledge of the afterlife.”

“Good to know.

“What are you going to do about Nick?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked so sad that he wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “He’s just confused, you know. And he probably thinks you doubt his talent.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, but you can’t let him see that. If you want me to finish this novel, he’s got to believe that you have faith in him. Otherwise, he might just give up, no matter how good his dreams are.”

“I don’t want him to do that. I just want him to understand what’s going on.”

“He doesn’t need to. I think it would be best if you just stopped talking about me. Let him think the spirit cleansing did the trick.”

She smiled at him uncertainly. “Are you going to stop visiting me?”

“I should. It’s not good for you. You’re alive and you need breathing friends.”

“I wish we’d met before…you did what you did.”

He gave her a wry half-smile. “There’s no way we could have. I was practically a hermit…I had been since Tina left me.”

“Tina?”

“My ex. She gave up on me…got tired of listening to me bitch and moan about my writer’s block, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. I miss her a lot more than I ever admitted to myself when I was alive.”

“You want me to contact her for you? Give her a message?”

He sighed. “No. That’s not a good idea. It’s better that she’s free of me. There’s a couple in the neighborhood – he’s dead, she’s alive. She might as well be dead, though. She looks like a zombie most of the time, and Father Donovan and I agree that her dead husband is the one draining the life from her.”

“You’re worried you’ll do that to us, aren’t you?”

He stood and paced the length of the cabin. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her eyes following him back and forth across the room. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Would you go talk to her – the wife, I mean? Maybe make friends with her? She’s so lonely.”

“What’s her name?”

“Margo Thurman. She’s a few blocks over in the yellow house with the white picket fence and great flower garden.” He conjured an image of the house and placed it a few hundred feet from the cabin. “Come to the window. I’ll show you.”

Cynthia walked to the window and looked out, seeing the yellow house he had described. An older woman stepped outside with gardening gloves and shaded her eyes against the sun. Then she waved at them and Cynthia jumped. “She can see us? Is she really in my dream?”

“No. This is just a shadow of her – I’ve seen her, even spent time in her home. That’s how I can show her to you.”

Cynthia reluctantly waved back and the woman proceeded to move about her garden, pruning and weeding.

“I’m going to get out of here for a while,” Tim said. “The stench is bad enough to give me a nosebleed – if I still had blood, that is.”

The Wreck of The Sidonie Stone by Perle Butcher Lyon

A Synopsis :

In 1936 the world was in turmoil; depression swept over the land stealing jobs and hope, and from Europe came rumblings of another war. Women had few choices: they could teach, nurse or marry, and none of these options brought a guarantee of a better life. Chances for success and for happiness were still in the iron grip of men…

Sydney Stone lost everything when her father's fishing boat sank just outside Hickman's Harbour, Newfoundland during an early storm. She lost her livelihood, her new husband and her only hope at love and family. Rescued by the one person in town less liked than herself, she entered into what she believed was to be a marriage of convenience; he had a boat and she had the experience to run a successful fishing fleet. Unfortunately, there was nothing about that marriage that proved convenient for either of them.

A sample: He closed his fingers around mine, holding tightly. "I don’t want this. Take it back."

I struggled to free myself from his grip. "I don’t accept charity, Mr. Cingesleah. I thought I had made that clear."

"Oh, yes, you made it very clear," he rasped, angrily. "It was not charity, Mrs. Keel. It was an act of kindness." He pulled the wad of bills from my fingers and shook them in my face. "You ought to learn the difference." His fingers tightened as I tried to slip away.

"In your case, they look mighty similar. And anyway, on what grounds would you be kind to me?" I continued to fight his hold. "We’re not related, and we certainly wouldn’t rank as friends."

"Damn you." He grabbed my free hand and pulled me closer, effectively holding me in place. "Must you categorize everything? Must everything be in black and white for you? Can you never accept anything at face value?" He waited a moment but I didn’t reply, so he went on, on a sigh. "Very well, the grounds are that it offended me to see someone – anyone – in need, and no one around willing to lend a hand. I’ve been down, my dear – oh, yes, I have," he insisted when my eyes widened incredulously. "I was down lower than I hope you will never even be able to imagine, and I wished so desperately that there had been just one person who cared enough for mankind in general to lend me a hand, just to get my on my feet again. I had to crawl for a long time before I could walk again, and I swore I’d never step over another soul as they crept around. Is that reason enough for you?" He released me, abruptly.

"Y-yes." I backed away from him, straightening my father’s old work shirt, which hung on me like an empty sail, and ran nervous fingers through my hair. "I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful, Mr. Cingesleah, but I’ve been on my own too long not to question everyone’s motives, especially the motives of someone not generally known for his generosity or kind heart. And…you were very cruel to me," I added in small voice.

His brows rose, as if my accusation surprised him, but just as quickly he lowered them and frowned. "I suppose it might have seemed that way – although I didn’t think would be at the time. I thought, being the sort of pragmatic woman you’ve always appeared to be, that you’d prefer honesty – even cold edged honesty – over the lachrymose bleatings of pity and false sympathy."

I swallowed, ashamed. It was hard to believe, but he had just made his hard hearted behavior seem almost kind. "You’re right," I said quietly. "I would have done." Through gritted teeth, I added, "I’m sorry."

American Sanction by Jim Burkett

What reviewers say: "The description and detail of the action is riveting. You will find it hard to put this book down. And what you will find is a twist ending that takes all of us by surprise. This one deserves five stars." Arthur Levine, author of Johnny Oops.

"Great fast paced thriller with a sting." Mr. Magic

" The ending is terrific and shocked me completely. Good book! It's a fast-paced, fun book that kept me entertained from cover to cover. I look forward to the next installment in the Nick West story."Doug DePew, author of SAT & BAF and Recall.

"I am not embarrassed to say it....I love Nick West." Island GirlWhat the author says: DHS Agent Nick West just wanted to keep a promise to a dead man and found himself on a collision course with insanity, revenge and the most deadly biochemical weapon in history. The sequel to Declaration of Surrender is even more terrifying because this isn't 'what if?' but 'when?'

What the book says: “Welcome to Ireland, Mr. West. I hope the flight was pleasant. Also, thank you for bringing my husband’s personal belongings back. It means a great deal to both of us.” She did not feel it was important to go into any further detail on her last comment.

Nick held his surprise as best he could, as it never occurred to him that the woman sitting on the other side of the desk would be Simon’s wife or that he was even married. Now the quick hug made sense. The more he learned of Simon, the greater the admiration and realization of just how private the man was. He also knew it was, in most part, the need to protect his loved ones from his enemies.

“I have to confess that of the little time I spent with Simon, he did not mention to me that you were his wife. He only asked that I contact you and bring the equipment back in case he was unable to. I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Simon would not have been able to reveal that to anyone, even if wanted. We have very strict disciplines not to ever let anyone know that information. I could tell you didn’t know I was his wife by your reaction, and that is good. And I will trust you will not repeat that knowledge outside this office.” She held her gaze on Nick for a moment, then felt slightly embarrassed that she had said it.

“There is no need for me to; I know the importance of why you are asking.” He hesitated before asking the next question.

“Simon was very adamant that I bring the rifle back to you and you alone. If I felt my trip here was in any way in jeopardy, he wanted me to destroy it immediately, especially the scope. Can I ask why?”

Olexia Syshchenko looked at him in surprise. Simon would have never passed along that request had he known he was not going to return. Even so, it solidified her gut feelings that Simon had trusted this man more than she had ever known him to trust anyone before. Evading the question for the moment, she asked, “May I see the rifle?” as she placed her hand out towards the case.

Nick inserted the key Simon had given him, turned it, then flipped up the three latches. Extracting the rifle with both hands, he laid it on her outstretched hand, expecting her to half drop it onto her desk, due to the weight. Instead, she gripped it expertly and lifted it onto her lap with her one arm.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about the rifle, its mechanisms or advanced design. These are all trade secrets that only a handful of technical people and I have authority to know.”

Nick was not used to being denied information about anything he asked. Most questions pertained only to ‘need to know’ requests, so if he asked, then it was relevant. He never crossed into territory that he felt was not his business, only caring if it was critical to the mission and would keep his men or himself alive. “Alright, I can respect that. However, in all honesty, I did look over the entire weapon and saw some things that had me curious.”

“Again, Mr. West, I cannot answer those types of questions. Whatever you want to know about its design, you simply do not have the authority. The only reason you are aware of some of its components, is because my husband trusted you. I would like to ask that you do not pursue your line of questions any further.”

“Please accept my apologies.” Nick was annoyed by being spoken to so bluntly, but understood. “Now that I’ve delivered the rifle, is there anything I can answer before I leave and travel back to the United States?”

“No, everything has been taken care of as far as Simon’s body being returned, and you have brought us the second most important item. I want to thank you again for helping my husband. It was always very hard for him to trust anyone other than myself, so he must have felt something very strong with you. May your trip back home be a pleasant journey.” With the conversation abruptly finished, she pressed a button on the underside of her desk and the two guards reappeared before Nick had fully stood and straightened his jacket.

Waiting until Nick and the guards had entered the elevator, she punched several digits on the phone and waited for the senior engineer to walk through the door of an adjoining office. As he stepped in, she immediately asked him if the scan had been processed and a positive ID had been made. The engineer assured her Nick was authenticated, however, the finger imprint on the trigger of the rifle did not match Nick’s. The imprint was from his wife.

“Were there any other prints found on the rifle?” asked Olexia.

“No, it’s completely clean. The only two prints were Mr. West and his wife, Laura.”

“Please take the weapon to have the chip extracted and read. Let me know when you’re ready and I will be there. No one other than you or I are to be present. You will process the encryption and video yourself. Absolutely no one else is to touch any part of that rifle.”

The engineer took out a small card and inserted it into the butt of the rifle. The card contained a code that opened the only compartments of the two existing rifles that held the multi-million dollar chip. Upon the press of his finger, a latch holding the scope released and he gently eased the wrapped electronics from a concealed compartment, placing it in a small airtight container the size of a dime. Turning towards the door that led in the direction of the lab, he spoke over his shoulder as he hurried out. “I should be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Ten minutes later, Olexia was sitting in a theater while the high definition screen played the decrypted recordings. The video had been forwarded ahead and began with the last image of the man who had killed her husband. She watched as the man’s head exploded and his body fell backwards, thrown off of DHS Special Agent Nick West by the impact from the 50 caliber projectile. There was no movement for several minutes until finally she saw Nick rise from the ground and approach the position of the rifle, his body growing larger as he got closer. She saw a continuous flow of blood streaming from his shoulder as his arm dangled lifelessly by his side. In the background, she saw the lifeless image of her husband’s body.